


(No) Boundaries

by sock_in_my_drawer



Series: With the taste of a poison paradise [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Internalized Homophobia, Just the tip okay?, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Patrick Hockstetter is His Own Warning, Power Imbalance, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Coercion, Toxic Relationship, offensive language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:07:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23462173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sock_in_my_drawer/pseuds/sock_in_my_drawer
Summary: The thing between Richie and Patrick has been going on for a while now, but there’s still a small voice of reason somewhere in the back of Richie’s mind, his very own Jiminy Cricket that criesno fucking waywhenever Patrick seeks him out for a hookup, reminds him that a guy like Patrick Hockstetter is a wildfire, a chaotic thing that burns and spreads around him until Richie has no way out.
Relationships: Patrick Hockstetter/Richie Tozier
Series: With the taste of a poison paradise [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1669426
Comments: 33
Kudos: 127





	(No) Boundaries

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for the feedback on the first fic in this series! :) I don't have a beta for this ship, so apologies for any mistakes. I'm always willing to add additional tags and warnings, just let met know if you need something tagged :)

Derry comes alive in the summer. The streets fill with tourists who flock to the coast to gawk at the idyl of small-town America, a bunch of idiots, blissfully unaware of the rot festering just underneath the charming surface.

There’s a crowd of said idiots in front of the ice cream stand, and Richie shoulders his way through them, clearing a path for Stan who follows a few steps behind. “What’s so great about this shit-pit, anyway? We don’t even have a cool mass hoax like Salem,” Richie scoffs, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his button up. He can feel Stan’s look of silent disapproval at the back of his neck as he breathes in a deep lungful of smoke, the one he mastered all the way back in elementary school.

And it’s not that he likes it, the shit burns his tonsils and leaves his mouth tasting like an ashtray, but it dulls the restless itch he’s carried under his skin for as long as he can remember.

Richie almost chokes on his next inhale when Stan fists his hand around his sleeve and drags him to the alley behind the Capitol. “Hey, watch the shirt, man! This is a Freese’s original,” Richie whines, but the fear he sees on Stan’s face speaks volumes. Oh shit. “Is it Bowers?” He drops the cigarette from his fingers and whips his head around. “Where are they?”

“Right here, you four-eyed freak,” Bowers sneers, materializing in the narrow gap between the buildings.

The rest of the gang isn’t far behind, and Richie’s shoulders pull up to his ears as Vic and Belch crack their knuckles in perfect unison, trailing after Bowers like a pair of B-movie goons. They’re followed by Patrick who saunters to the alley several paces behind everyone else, the click-click-click of the aerosol can in his hand like a livewire straight through Richie’s nerves.

Patrick looks as thrilled at the prospect of a brawl as he always does, but the thirst for violence slips away when his eyes land on Richie. He pushes his hair back and stares at Richie with an expression that seems to say _well, this is awkward_.

It’s been a while since Bowers has cornered them like this, but Richie isn’t stupid enough to think that Patrick will come to his aid just because they jerk each other off once or twice a week. And sure enough, the asshole doesn’t so much as blink when Bowers shoves Stan against the nearest brick wall.

Richie’s stomach plummets at the familiar sound of a blade sliding out of its sheath. Bowers gives the knife in his hand a playful twirl, the sadistic smile that stretches across his face putting his cigarette-stained teeth on full display.

“Any last words, flamer?”

Stan goes completely still as Bowers points the knife at his face and there’s no fight in his eyes, like he’s just choosing to accept his fate. Richie remembers that flat, paralyzed expression from ‘89, and he knows the odds are stacked against them, but he steps in front of Stan to shield him from further abuse.

“Don’t fucking touch him, you inbred piece of shit!”

Belch pushes forward from the shadow of Bowers’ back and balls the front of Richie’s t-shirt in his meaty fist. “Or what?” he sneers.

Richie’s eyes dart to Patrick who continues to hang back like a spectator waiting to be entertained. He paces left and right, left and right, his shoulders hunched, but the grin on his lips isn't as gleeful as it was a moment ago, and the aerosol can is back in his pocket.

“Eat shit, Huggins,” Richie spits. “Oh wait, judging by the stench of your breath, you already did.”

Belch yanks on Richie's collar and Patrick freezes mid-step, his eyes flashing with _something_ as Richie is thrown across the alley.

Richie lets out a pained groan as his cheek collides with the crumbling brickwork and his mouth blooms with the metallic tang of blood.

“Richie!”

It’s Stan, his voice small and frightened, but Richie barely hears him through the ringing in his ears as his vision whites out with pain. He plasters his palms against the wall to keep himself upright and glances at Stan over his shoulder. Their odds of survival are slim to none if they stay and fight, which leaves just one option.

“Run!”

Stan nods, the soles of his loafers scraping against the pavement as he takes off, racing down the narrow alleyway.

“Don’t let that fucking Jew get away!” Bowers snarls, swinging his knife like a saber as he and Vic dart after their prey.

Richie is left to deal with Belch and Patrick, and the odds might be a little more even now, but he knows he won’t get far when he can barely see straight.

He’s fucking caught.

  
  


The line of Patrick’s shoulders is taut, his neck stretched forward, like a predator ready to pounce, but his eyes are fixed on Belch instead of Richie.

Belch grabs Richie’s shoulder and spins him around, the stale stench of beer and nicotine on his breath wafting into Richie’s face. “You’re gonna get it now, you four-eyed little fairy,” he guffaws, pointing at the aerosol can shoved into the back pocket of Patrick’s jeans. “We’re gonna give you a smoking makeover.”

“Smokin’ like your mom’s vagina every time I’m done plowing her?” Richie shoots back, because fuck it, it’s not like he’s got anything to lose here.

“What did you just say, you little fucker!” Belch grabs a chunk of Richie’s hair to hold him still as he balls his hand into a fist.

Richie hates himself for it, but he throws Patrick a pleading look as a last, desperate attempt to avoid the trashing he knows is coming his way.

Patrick doesn’t even meet his eyes, too busy glaring at Belch’s beet-red face.

Well, fuck. Richie screws his eyes shut and wonders if a broken nose will improve his street cred, but Belch’s knuckles never hit their mark.

There’s a loud slap of skin against skin, and both Richie and Belch blink in surprise as Patrick grabs Belch’s wrist, stopping his fist just inches away from Richie’s nose.

“What the fuck, Hockstetter?” Belch squeals. He tries to jerk himself free, but Patrick’s hold on his wrist grows tighter, Belch’s sunburnt skin protruding between his long fingers.

“This one’s mine,” Patrick says, the pleasant smile on his face in direct conflict with the threat in his eyes.

Richie feels like he’s in the middle of a Mexican standoff as he watches Patrick and Belch stare each other down. He’s never paid close attention to the inner power dynamics of Bowers’ gang, but when it comes to sheer physical force, there’s no question about Belch having the upper hand.

Turns out Patrick Hockstetter doesn’t need muscle or body mass to come out on top, because Belch’s grip on Richie’s hair begins to ease as Patrick subdues him with his unsettling stare.

“Fine, whatever. I’m fucking out of here…” Belch mutters, adjusting his baseball cap as he retreats from the alley like a beaten dog.

Richie blows out a long breath, pressing his fingers against his miraculously unbroken nose as he slumps against the wall.

“Damn, you’ve got a dirty mouth on you,” Patrick snorts, stepping into Richie’s personal space. 

“Yeah, well, that hick deserved it.” Richie takes his glasses off and traces his finger along the crack on the left lens, and isn’t that just fucking perfect. His mom is gonna kill him when he gets home.

He sets his glasses back on his nose and finds Patrick staring at the cut on his lip. There’s a brief flash of genuine upset in the pinch between Patrick’s eyebrows and he traces his finger along the trail of blood on Richie’s chin, the murky blue of his eyes lit with something possessive.

“I really fucking hate it when people touch what’s mine,” he says, his jaw twitching.

Richie feels a confusing lick of arousal at the implication of Patrick’s words, but it’s tempered by the bite of his fingers as he digs them into Richie’s cheeks, and the kiss he plants on Richie’s lips makes the cut in the flesh throb in time with his pulse.

“Ow, fuck!” Richie wrenches his head away and spits a crimson loogie at his feet.

Patrick flicks his tongue over his bottom lip, his smile stained red with Richie’s blood. He leans in, nosing at Richie’s cheekbone. “Got any plans on this fine Saturday afternoon?”

“Well, I thought I'd hit the clubs, snort some lines off a stripper’s ass and live large on the dollar fifty in my pocket,” Richie says, completely deadpan.

Patrick lets out a loud honk of laughter and Richie's mouth curls up in spite of the pain; it's kinda nice to have someone laugh at his shit jokes again. 

Patrick brushes his lips against Richie’s earlobe. “Meet me at the Standpipe in twenty.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving Richie to catch his breath as his lip continues to bleed sluggishly.

“Yeah, don’t count on it!” Richie yells, almost as an afterthought.

The thing between him and Patrick has been going on for a while now, but there’s still a small voice of reason somewhere in the back of Richie’s mind, his very own Jiminy Cricket that cries _no fucking way_ whenever Patrick seeks him out for a hookup, reminds him that a guy like Patrick Hockstetter is a wildfire, a chaotic thing that burns and spreads around him until Richie has no way out.

But it’s not like Patrick is holding a gun to Richie's head and forcing him to hook up with him. He does it because he wants to, and isn't that a scary fucking thought.

There’s no sign of Bowers and Vic when Richie slinks out of the alleyway, and he hopes that Stan made it home alright. He flicks his tongue over the cut in his lip and gets some looks from a bunch of tourists as he spits out another bloody wad and flashes his crimson teeth at them.

Welcome to Derry, assholes.

Patrick is already parked in front of the Standpipe when Richie arrives, almost ten minutes late, because he’s not some mindless lemming who does whatever Patrick tells him to do. He can hear the blare of one of the obscure bands Patrick is into through the open windows of his Pontiac, the song more like an assorted cacophony of noise than actual music. Patrick revs the engine when he spots Richie coming his way and judging by the crooked smile that stretches across his face, he isn’t too upset by his lack of punctuality.

Richie looks over his shoulder before he reaches for the door handle. He's pretty sure the remaining Losers are in the dark about his mutually beneficial arrangement with Patrick, and he'd like to keep it that way, because how the hell would he even begin to explain the mess of a situation to his friends when he can't even justify it to himself. He slips inside and they exchange a quick look as Patrick speeds out of the grassy field.

The car is a mess of cassette tapes and old fast food containers, and the smell from the overflowing ashtray burns in Richie’s nostrils like it always does. “So why am I here?” Richie asks, using his feet to part the sea of trash in the footwell.

Patrick takes his hand off the wheel and settles it on Richie's inner thigh. He’s never subtle, and Richie maybe kind of likes that, wishes he could be as bold. "Don't you think I deserve some compensation for being such an upstanding citizen back in that alley?”

"Uh-huh, a real fucking Gandhi," Richie scoffs, able to guess what Patrick is after when they veer left at Witcham.

They drive past Eddie’s old house and Richie turns to look away, the sight of it still too painful. It’s been over a year and no one’s moved in, not even the town junkies. He hopes Eddie is happy in Florida, and he must be since he doesn’t seem to be missing Richie or the remaining Losers enough to write or call. Patrick doesn't notice Richie's sudden bout of sadness, too busy sucking on his cigarette and drumming his fingers against the wheel as he drives like the maniac that he is.

Patrick doesn’t bring Richie to his home that often, and Richie has to admit that he prefers the backseat of his Pontiac or even the shack in the junkyard, because coming to the suburbs feels too bold, like what he does with Patrick isn't all kinds of wrong. Richie jerks in his seat when Patrick hits the breaks, the front tires settling into the well-worn tracks in the driveway. The house isn’t the dump Richie always expected someone like Patrick Hockstetter to inhabit, but the chipping paint job and the screen door that hangs off its hinges makes it obvious that they’re on the wrong side of Derry.

He follows Patrick across the yard, glancing over his shoulders, but there are no people out, no one to catch him as he slips inside like he’s sneaking into a strip club.

Patrick doesn't strike Richie as the religious type, but the walls of the Hockstetter home are decorated with gold-framed pictures of the Virgin Mary, and the air has a distinctly waxy smell from the candles on the small altar in the back of the sitting room. The tiny suffering Jesus in the crucifix that hangs above it makes Richie feel so guilty that he has to avert his gaze from it every time he visits.

Richie has never met Mr. Hockstetter, but Patrick’s mother is always home when he comes over. Today, she’s in the kitchen, and the way her shoulders tense as Patrick and Richie pass by the doorway reminds Richie of some small animal, alert in the face of an impending attack.

“Hey, Mrs. Hockstetter,” Richie greets, giving her a polite little nod.

She lifts her eyes from the carrot she’s cutting, the look in them timid and hollow. “Hello, Richard, Patrick.”

Patrick doesn’t even acknowledge his mother as he leads Richie to his room. It’s barely half of the size of Richie’s own room, and the haphazardly hung curtains that keep the daylight out add to its suffocating atmosphere. The walls are like some demonic hellscape with posters full of pentagrams and hooded figures and flaming skeletons, and it’s obvious that Patrick doesn’t spend much time home, because the ashtray on the nightstand doesn’t fill up nearly as fast as the one in his car.

Patrick closes the door with the heel of his boot and leads Richie to the bed by his shoulders. They rarely bother with smalltalk, because they both know that they only have one thing in common, and that particular activity doesn’t require much talking.

The mattress bounces under Richie’s weight as he plops down onto the bed. He toes his sneakers off his feet and allows himself to look his fill as Patrick pulls his ratty band shirt over his head, the fear of being caught looking at another guy ironically not as bad here, in the room of his childhood bully, as it is everywhere else in Derry.

Patrick isn’t much broader than Richie, but he’s all whipcord muscle where Richie still has a padding of baby fat on his limbs. Patrick’s mouth quirks up when he catches Richie staring at the flex of his biceps, but the blush that rises to Richie's cheeks is fueled by simple embarrassment, not the terror he used to feel when someone caught his eyes lingering a little too long in the locker rooms after PE.

Patrick kicks his loosely laced combat boots off his feet and joins Richie on the bed, his smile less feral than it tends to be around Bowers and the rest of his goons.

“That looks painful,” Patrick observes, eyeing the cut on Richie’s lip. He presses his thumb against it, a little too hard, and Richie cries out when the barely formed scab splits open in a fresh burst of blood.

“You asshole!” Richie cries out, shoving Patrick’s hand away. “You did that on purpose...”

Patrick slips the bloody tip of his thumb into his mouth, grinning around it like a hyena. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. I've got something that’ll take the edge off.”

He glances at the old tin box on the windowsill to their right, and okay, a little weed might actually make Patrick’s bullshit slightly more tolerable.

“Fine…”

Richie watches Patrick’s long fingers work their magic on the rolling paper and does his best to look like he isn't aware of every awkward angle of his body as he pulls his shirt over his head and kicks his jeans down his skinny legs. He doesn’t want to smoke in his birthday suit, especially when Patrick is still half-dressed, so he leaves his underwear on.

Patrick brings the joint to his lips and rolls his thumb against the flint wheel of his zippo, and Richie can’t help the way his eyes get stuck on the long lines of Patrick’s throat as he throws his head back and exhales a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke.

“Go easy, now,” Patrick says, arching his brow as he hands the joint to Richie.

"Yeah, yeah…"

Richie settles against the lumpy pillows and gets himself adequately high as he watches Patrick dig through a cardboard box full of cassette tapes like he's looking for a winning ticket at a lottery. The tape he picks isn’t the same mindless jumble of noise that Richie gets tortured with in the car, but it’s definitely not even close to Richie’s own tastes.

Patrick turns the volume up and shoots Richie a lecherous smile over his shoulder. “You get so loud, baby.”

And he does that now, calls Richie things like ‘baby’ and ‘sweet-cheeks’, each pet name all kinds of wrong in the mouth of Patrick Hockstetter. It makes Richie feel like they’re crossing some boundary that should remain uncrossed, but it’s hard to deny the way his dick jumps at the ill-fitting endearment.

Patrick searches through the drawer on his nightstand and pulls out a tube of Astroglide they’ve been using to jerk each other off whenever Richie comes over. He snatches the joint from Richie’s lips and snuffs it out with his thumb and forefinger before dumping the blood-stained butt in the ashtray.

“You feeling all nice and baked there?”

“Yeppp,” Richie nods with a little giggle, letting Patrick pick his glasses off his nose and set them on the windowsill. The ache in his lip is gone and his head swims pleasantly, and even the spot of water damage above the bed is a lot more fascinating than it was five minutes ago.

Patrick yanks Richie’s underwear down his legs, the tip of his tongue poking out between his lips. “Shit, you’re eager,” he snorts, raking his eyes up and down the pink length of Richie’s cock.

Part of Richie hates that he’s so obvious, but it’s hard to practice self-restraint now that he’s finally getting what he wants after years of one-sided pining and thinking he’d never even get to have his first kiss until he got out of Derry. And sure, Patrick isn’t someone you bring home to meet the parents, but he’s got a certain devil-may-care vibe that gets Richie’s dick hard.

Patrick kicks his jeans and underwear down his long legs and knocks Richie’s knees apart to make himself room between them. Richie folds his hands behind his head and gets comfortable, expecting the usual handjob, but Patrick’s eyes are trained lower.

“I’m gonna try something different tonight,” Patrick says as he coats his fingers in lube, glancing at Richie through the strands of hair hanging over his face.

“Oh yeah? What exactly does this ‘something different’ entail?” Richie asks, and he gets his answer when Patrick reaches between his cheeks and strokes two lube-coated fingers over his hole. “Holy ffffuck!”

Patrick takes a hold of Richie’s knee to keep him still, his pupils spilling across his irises like oil. “I’m gonna finger you.”

Patrick’s hands tend to wander almost every time they hook up, but Richie has never let him stick anything inside him, and he’s shocked to discover that the thought doesn’t repulse him as much as it probably should. He’s still mulling over the idea, but Patrick doesn’t wait for permission, and Richie tenses up as he feels two of his fingers slip inside.

“H-hey!”

“Just relax, babe, don’t fight it,” Patrick murmurs, like he's talking to a spooked animal, stroking his hand up and down Richie’s thigh.

Richie squeezes his eyes shut and blows out a trembling breath through his nose. The first time they touched each other in Patrick’s bed, Richie could barely get hard, and the knowledge that there was a middle-aged housewife in the next room killed his boner halfway through. He has no idea if Mrs. Hockstetter knows what kind of activities they engage in while she’s cutting vegetables in the kitchen, but Patrick doesn’t seem fazed by her presence, almost like the world outside his room doesn’t even exist.

“There you go,” Patrick nods, squirting more lube over Richie's hole.

The weed in his head makes Richie feel like he’s melting into the mattress and he digs his toes into the rumpled blanket, the stretch of Patrick's fingers on the edge of too much, but fuck, Richie might actually like it.

“I wanna watch you jerk off,” Patrick says, tossing the tube of Astroglide onto Richie’s belly. "Come on, give me a show."

Richie grins, watching Patrick with half-lidded eyes as he drizzles a viscous trail of lube over his cock. He used to feel exposed and awkward touching himself like this, but he's come to enjoy the weight of Patrick's gaze on him, intense and completely shameless. And Richie's not afraid to stare back, watching the way Patrick’s arm moves between his thighs, the subtle shift of muscles in his jaw as he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, his knuckles digging into Richie's cheeks.

Something about the angle is different and Richie's mouth falls open in a breathless moan when Patrick’s fingers sends a sudden, intense spark of pleasure straight to his dick. It happens again after a few thrusts, and Richie is pretty sure that Patrick isn’t doing it on purpose, but it has him panting as his cock pulses out a cloudy pearl of pre-come.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck…” Richie throws his head back, caging Patrick between his thighs as he fucks into his own fist.

Patrick pushes his hair off his face and shoves his fingers deep. “You gonna come?”

Patrick doesn’t have to ask. He knows exactly how Richie looks and sounds when he’s about to come, the bloom of pink that spreads over his cheekbones, the way his moans turn into staccato gasps as his hips lift from the bed.

“You gonna come?” Patrick repeats, fucking Richie so hard that his entire body jerks with it, the wet sound of it audible in spite of the music.

“Yeah, yeah… _Fuck_ ,” Richie pants, “I’m gonna come.”

And he does, shooting all over his stomach, his eyes stinging with the salt of his own sweat and a couple of errant tears that gather at the corners.

Patrick doesn’t give him time to enjoy his afterglow, and Richie’s moans turn into whimpers when he yanks his fingers out. He squirts more lube into his palm and reaches down to stroke himself, the rings on his fingers glinting in the sliver of sunlight that breaks through the narrow gap in the curtains.

Richie stares at Patrick with pleasure-drunk eyes, his brows pinching together in a confused frown when he feels Patrick grab his thighs with lube-stained fingers.

“Hey, what- what are you doing?” Richie asks, lifting his head from the pillow.

Patrick forces Richie to fold his body until his knees rest against his shoulders, every single part of him exposed. Richie blinks when he feels a blunt pressure on his hole, the echo of Eddie’s rants about the AIDS epidemic ringing in his ears like some fucked up after school special. “Wait, wait, Patrick, stop!”

Patrick’s jaw twitches, but the slant of his eyebrows is almost mockingly pleading as he sticks out his bottom lip. “Just the tip, okay?”

“No, you asshole-”

Patrick pushes in, cutting Richie off mid-protest, his fingers digging into the meat of Richie’s thigh hard enough to bruise.

“Goddammit, Hockstetter!” Richie hisses, kicking his heel against Patrick’s shoulder, but Patrick doesn’t even seem to hear him as he jerks himself into Richie like he’s some glorified come sock.

“Fuck, you’re wet, like a slut,” Patrick pants, his hips moving in small, aborted thrusts. “ _My_ slut”

Richie cheeks burn with shame and the pleasant buzz from his orgasm is gone. He’s angry with Patrick, and furious with himself, because he knows there’s no one else he can blame for being in this messed up situation in the first place.

Patrick’s dark hair tickles Richie’s face as he hunches over his body, and Richie knows what’s about to happen when he sees Patrick scrunch his nose, his upper lip curling up in a snarl.

“Don’t you dare come in me, Patrick, you fuck-”

Patrick slides all the way in as his hips jerk with his orgasm, and Richie lets out a startled gasp, Patrick’s weight on him forcing all the air out of his lungs. 

“What the hell? You- you’re all the way in!” Richie cries out, the stretch of Patrick’s cock sending a confused spark or arousal through his spine even as he shoves at his shoulders.

Patrick tilts his head, his smile sheepish as he rolls his hips against Richie’s ass. “Oops?”

And it’s not like Richie was saving himself for someone special, not anymore, but this is not how he pictured his first time going.

“You asshole… You said you’d make it special,” Richie whines, like a little kid who just learned there’s no Santa or Easter Bunny.

“Did I?” Patrick thrusts a little deeper, letting out a satisfied grunt as he mouths at Richie’s jawline and fucks into the slick mess he's left in him. “Sorry, but I was all out of rose petals and silk sheets.”

Richie doesn’t care about any soap opera crap, but, “You could have fucking asked…”

“Come on, we both know you wanted it, you don’t have to hide it, not with me,” Patrick murmurs against Richie’s neck. He pulls out with a wet squelch and cards his fingers through his hair, tilting his head as he parts Richie’s cheeks. “Jesus, you’re sloppy… Leaking all over my fucking bed,” he laughs, drinking in the humiliated flush that stains Richie’s cheeks.

Patrick rubs his thumb over Richie’s hole, but Richie shifts away before he has a chance to push it inside. He grabs the box of Kleenex on the nightstand and yanks the blanket over himself for some privacy so he can clean himself.

The shit-eating grin on Patrick’s face grows even wider, like Richie is some amusing act in a variety show. Richie tosses the box of Kleenex at his head, but Patrick catches it before it can hit him. “Feisty,” he snorts, but there’s a troubled pinch between his brows, like it’s finally getting through his thick skull that Richie is genuinely upset. Patrick pulls his jeans on and gives Richie some privacy as he goes to turn the old Panasonic balanced on a shelf of cinder blocks to MTV.

Richie gets dressed and shoves his feet into his sneakers, and he kind of hates himself for still being surprised by Patrick’s complete lack of respect for his boundaries, because it’s not like they’ve ever played by Richie’s rules. “I don’t know why the fuck I even hang out with you…” Richie grumbles, setting his glasses back on his nose.

Patrick wags his brows, squeezing himself through his jeans as he settles back on the bed. "Because of my big dick and charming personality?"

"Oh yeah, you're a real catch," Richie scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“Come on, Tozier, don’t be like that.” Patrick coos from the bed. “I’m sorry, okay? I couldn't help it! You felt so fucking good, you always do.” He pats at the mattress and lifts his arm in a clear invitation for Richie to settle down next to him. “I’ll roll you another joint if you get your ass over here and wipe that dumb pout off your pretty face.”

Richie knows he should walk the fuck away and put an end to this whole twisted chapter in his life, but all he can hear is the chorus of some stupid song that used to play on his dad’s portable radio in the garage.

_I fell into a burning ring of fire, I went down, down, down, and the flames went higher..._

But Patrick wasn’t lying when he said Richie doesn’t have to hide around him. It’s some Bizarro world levels of crazy, but Richie feels more free around Patrick than he does with the people he’s known since kindergarten. Because Patrick is into him in spite of his dirty little secret. No, not in spite of it, _because_ of it.

Patrick makes good on his promise and lights a freshly rolled joint, arching his brow at Richie as he blows out smoke through his nostrils.

Richie keeps on pouting as he settles against Patrick’s flank, snatching the joint from his lips. The Aerosmith video on the TV screen paints the plumes of smoke red and green, and Patrick watches Richie with hazy eyes, his smile pleased like he's won some prize.

They finish the joint and Richie rests his head on Patrick’s shoulder as his mind goes all floaty. He watches Patrick fiddle with one of the rings on his fingers, a big titanium one with a serpent twisting around its scaly body. Patrick takes Richie’s hand in his own and the ring is on Richie’s finger before his brain has caught up, settling snugly under his second knuckle.

A perfect fit.

Patrick taps his nail against the ring. “That special enough for you?”

Richie stares at the ring, knows it’s not just a random gift. It's a fucking brand. He wants to lie, mostly to himself, wants to take the ring off and pretend to hate it, but he tilts his head and watches Patrick with bloodshot eyes, the corner of his mouth pulling up. “I guess it’s kinda cool.”

“Cool,” Patrick snorts, cupping Richie’s chin to press his thumb against the cut on his lip.

_….and it burns, burns, burns..._


End file.
